Home is Where the Labyrinth Is
by Jo-Anne Storm
Summary: Where exactly was Spike during those nineteen days between “Chosen” and “Conviction?”


**Title:**  Home is Where the Labyrinth Is

**Author:**  Jo-Anne Storm          

**Rating:** PG-13, because, after all, it does have Spike in it.

**Disclaimer:**  Spike and company belong to Joss Whedon, Mutant Enemy, Fox, and probably a whole lot of other people.  The Labyrinth Crew belong to Jim Henson Productions.  I'm just playing with them a little.  I promise I'll put them back exactly where I found them.

**Summary:**  Where exactly was Spike during those nineteen days between "Chosen" and "Conviction?"

**Notes:**  While this story doesn't delve heavily into "The Labyrinth" fandom, I should tell you that I changed the timeline of the movie.  Just pretend that it took place about 200 years in the past and you'll do fine.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

He refused to scream as the pain ripped through him.  Screaming was too much like giving up, and one thing Spike never did was give up.

Instead he laughed, somewhat hysterically, as his body crumbled to dust.  He didn't think anyone would blame him.  After all, who would have thought that it would end like this?

As quickly as it had come, the fire was gone, as was the cavern he had been standing in.  

He found himself in a circular room with grey stone walls.  The harshness of the grey was relieved by numerous colorful tapestries both hanging from the ceiling and resting on the floor.  Whispers surrounded him, briefly drawing his attention to the creatures of all shapes and sizes scattered about the room before his eyes snagged the trailing edge of a huge wooden banner.  The beams that made up the waving decoration were so thick that it could easily support some of the larger goblins, who sat quite happily on the rough wood, unconcerned with splinters.

The edge of the banner naturally led his eyes around to the center, where two thrones sat.  Even if he hadn't already deduced where he was, the occupants of the thrones, and more importantly, their expressions, would have clued him in that he was in for a rough time.

"Oh, bugger," he muttered as he turned to fully face the king and queen.

He obviously had not spoken quietly enough, for the king heard him and shouted "Silence!" in an echoing voice.

Spike fought the urge to cringe and kneel.  He fought the years of youthful shyness and lack of confidence that were suddenly at the forefront of his entire being.  It was a fight that he barely won.

With bravado that didn't extend far past the first layer of his skin, he stood proudly before the thrones and surveyed the royalty situated there.  The king stared arrogantly back, his mismatched eyes distant and cold.  His hair, white blonde with streaks of all colors, flowed smoothly down to his shoulders.  He wore a shirt that had far too many frills in Spike's opinion, and it was open to reveal the symbol of his office.  No crown for this king; he preferred a heavy crescent medallion.

The queen was youthful and beautiful, despite her many years on the throne.  He wasn't sure if it was the magic of the place that kept her dark hair free of grey and her face unlined or if it was caused by the sheer amount of adoration the king directed at her with every glance.  Either way, she looked the same as she had when she ascended the throne over two hundred years ago.

She was dressed a bit more practically than the king, in a flowing skirt and a bodice much like he had seen Tara wear before her untimely death.  She had long ago learned that dresses "fit for a queen" were damned uncomfortable to wear with all the beads, sequins, and fluffs.  She now focused her sense of fashion on comfort rather than fairy tales.

Spike drew his gaze away from the queen and focused once more on the king, struggling to keep his eyes away from the crystal balls the man had conjured and was now rolling around in his hand.  The monarch used them to distract those who came before him and Spike didn't want to fall into that trap.

"What have you to say for yourself?" the king asked, his attention focused on Spike's face.

"It was a wild ride," he replied, curling his tongue behind his teeth and smirking.

To say His Majesty was unimpressed was an understatement.  With a snarl he waved his hand, shattering the illusions the younger man had kept up for so long.

Spike staggered from the force of the magical explosion.  Suddenly, the heartbeat that had been silent for so long pounded in his ears, no longer masked by the spell that had made him appear dead.  

He felt oddly smaller without the disguise, though he knew that his physical characteristics had not changed.  He still stood five foot ten and still had bleach blonde hair, though now the hair at the roots was a touch darker than it had appeared before.

"William," the queen said, drawing his focus to her.  "We sent you Aboveground to gain confidence, not to pull silly pranks."

"'Twas not a silly prank," he replied, blue eyes blazing with inner fire.  "You gave up everything you ever knew for love.  Why shouldn't I?"

"Because," the king returned.  "You have responsibilities."

"And that makes all the difference?" he asked, returning to the speech patterns of his youth.  "Are you telling me that your lovely queen had no responsibilities to her family before she eloped with you?"

"William!" the king roared, once again using his magic to amplify his voice, sending it bouncing off the stone walls.

Spike ground his teeth together and resisted the urge to scuff his toe as if he were a child being punished by his parents.

"Is that why you stayed?" the queen asked, softly.  "Because you were in love?"

"You have to send me back," he replied, ignoring her question.

"We have to do no such thing," Jareth told him, his eyes still distant.

"Yes, you do!  You sent me Above to force me out of my shell, to force me to grow up.  Well I did and now I know the importance of fulfilling your obligations.  And I have obligations to them."

"To her, you mean.  You have no obligations to the slayer.  She now has an army at her back."

Spike sneered at the monarch but reined his own temper in.  At one point he would have quaked at the Fae's displeasure.  Now, he was almost afraid of what would happen if the two of them went head to head.  Surely the Labyrinth would quake for days with the aftershocks of their fight.

"You will be confined to your room until such a time as We see fit to release you.  You shall not try to contact the Above.  You shall not go about the Underground.  Are We clear?"

Spike clenched his teeth and gave a short nod in answer.  

"You are dismissed."

Spike sketched a short bow, one that was rusty from disuse, and strode away from the throne room at a fast and steady walk.  It only took him a moment to traverse the familiar corridors to the suite of rooms he had played and studied in as a child.

The rooms were just as he remembered them despite the fact that over a century had passed since he had last been there.  He remembered protesting wildly when his parents had made the decision to send him Above in the guise of Anne Smythe's son, who had died of the same illness that would have eventually killed her.  He had been terrified of leaving his familiar surroundings and the precious books he had practically worshipped at the time.

His father had blamed his mother, despite his obvious love for the mortal woman, for introducing him to the fantasy world she had grew up believing in.  What need did his heir have for fantasy, the king reasoned, when tales of the Underground were what made up most of the stories?

The young William had loved the books, though, just as Sarah had done before him.  Not just the fairy tales, but the philosophy and the poetry and history.  He immersed himself in the words until he shut out everything else, including his loving family.  

Unable to pull the prince's head out of the clouds, the king had made the radical decision to send him Above, to separate him from his nice, comfortable world and force him to grow up.

It had not worked for several years, until the fateful night when Drusilla had "turned" him.  Rejected by both his real family and the human he had thought he loved, William clung to the ideal Dru wanted and reshaped himself to fit it.

He had never actually killed anyone, of course.  Well, not while he was in his right mind, at least.  It was a simple thing to convince others, through illusion and memory tampering, that he was responsible for the slaughter of hundreds of innocents.  In reality, he had erased the "victims'" memories and had sent them merrily on their way.

When the relationship with Dru failed, he seriously considered returning home, to lick his wounds in the comfort of his mother and father's love.  The only thing that kept him from doing so was the fact that he was a failure.  He had come out of his shell, yes, but had only done so in order to don a prison of his own making.  A prison he was so comfortable in that after Drusilla left he wrapped it around himself like a warm and comforting blanket.

It had taken the look in Buffy's eyes that awful night to jolt him out of that self-imposed prison.  He had left, not to get a soul, but to figure out who he was.  Not for his parents, Drusilla, or Buffy, but for himself.

Of course, considering how the rest of his life went, he shouldn't have been surprised when that failed as well.  This time through the interference of The First.  By the time he returned to Sunnydale, he believed the illusion was the reality.  Gone was William, crown prince of the Labyrinth.  All that remained was William the Bloody, souled vampire and fool for love.

It was only when he broke The First's hold on himself that he remembered who he really was.  Afterwards, there was no time to redefine himself.  Buffy did not need the extra stress of a confused half-Fae added to that of the end of the world, numerous potentials, and a little sister.

"They're not happy with you," a voice announced from the doorway, forcing him out of his thoughts.

"Speaking of little sisters," he muttered as he took in the beautiful woman who was striding towards the bed he was laying on.  Her dark brown hair curled gently down her back and her green eyes sparkled.

"I'm not happy with you, either," she announced, pinching his arm.

"Ow!  Bloody 'ell!"

"Watch your language," Jennifer said with a frown.  Despite the fact that she was a good twenty years younger than him, she was the one who had constantly taken the lead, her natural outgoing disposition making her bolder than his introverted one.  "Mum and Dad have been frantic, actually.  You haven't contacted anyone in over a year and when they do finally find you you're being ripped apart by some magical force.  Can't see why they would worry."

"Been busy," he stated.

She raised a delicately shaped eyebrow in clear imitation of him and snorted.  

"Was saving the world, you know?  Not just the Above, everything."

"Having delusions of grandeur now, are we?"

He stayed silent, turning his gaze once more to the ceiling he had been studying before her interruption.

After several minutes, Jennifer leaned over and kissed him on the cheek.  "Welcome home, Will.  I like the hair."

He smiled as she left, oddly content to be home and jittery to be back Above at the same time.

It took him a total of seventeen days to convince his father that he needed to be Above once again.  If not for the safety of the world, then for the opportunity to find himself.  His father refused to send him back to Buffy, however, stating that he didn't want to make it too easy on his son.  Which is why, after a refreshing nineteen days in the Underground, the Goblin King cast spells over his heir that would temporarily tie him to the amulet that had almost killed him and create the illusion of incorporeality.  

Spike kissed both his mother and sister on the cheek and promised that he would keep in touch this time before once again casting his own vampire illusion.  He took a deep breath as his father lobbed a crystal ball at him and prepared to meet both the hardest acting challenge and greatest adventure of his life.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

I should probably explain where the idea for this fic came from, because it really is kinda insane.  I was reading Dragonsdaughter's "A Rare Breed" and something about her description of Jareth in human guise reminded me of Spike.  I don't know if it was the slicked back blonde hair or the black clothes or what, but the image of Spike and Jareth resembling each other just wouldn't go away.    Suddenly, my mind was coming up with reasons for the resemblance.  Thus, this crazy fic was born.


End file.
